Page 21 of Filthy Twisted Devil

“Except Brinley.”

“Obviously, she already knows, unfortunately.” He sighs. “But you don't tell anyone else, not Pippa, not Cat, not Maura.”

“And you can't tell your poker buddies.”

“Of course. Ryan’s the worst secret keeper in the world. If he knows, so does half of Toronto. We know, Brinley knows, that’s it.” He writes it down.

4. Nobody else finds out.

“Anything else to add?” He gestures with the pen.

I look down at the napkin. It looks like there's enough space left for exactly one rule. Since I can't think of anything better, I tilt my head and say dryly, “Should we add a no-falling-in-love clause? For thoroughness.”

He laughs. A real, full laugh, probably the first one either of us has enjoyed in the past thirty-six hours. “Haven’t you heard, baby? Luke Windsor doesn’t fall in love?”

I find myself laughing along with him. The idea of Toronto’s biggest playboy wandering around with heart eyes? Yeah. Not happening.

5. No falling in love.

He caps the pen and folds the napkin. I watch as he walks through the door behind the bar into his office. He puts the napkin in the top drawer of his desk and turns a small key in the lock. When he's done, he returns and refills both our glasses.

“To faking it for the win?” he says, raising his glass.

“To faking it until we make it,” I reply.

We clink our glasses and both take a long drink.

8

EDEN

Idon't arrive back at my apartment until late that night. After our celebratory drinks, Luke and I turned to more practical matters. He pulled up all the events he’s attending for the next few weeks and I fit them into my schedule. He wrote an introductory email to Flair Events, which I completely rewrote and attached my portfolio to. Then we carefully constructed the story of how we went from acquaintances to dating, quizzing each other on the tale to check for inconsistencies.

I was surprised to see go-with-the-flow, party boy Luke get into the nitty gritty details with me. Normally, my friends are happy to hear plan A—they don’t feel the need to pay attention to plans B, C, and D. Luke did.

In fact, he was the one who came up with Project Selfie. He pointed out that we'll get the best bang for our buck convincing my brothers that we’re dating by sending them cute couple selfies. We took five or six of them around the Twisted Devil bar, offices, and storehouse rooms, using clothes from the lost and found to give the illusion of wardrobe changes. I’ve already picked one to text Wade tomorrow, where I’m sampling a bottle of honey whiskey that hasn’t been released in stores yet.

I’m exhausted as I walk up the stairs, but exhilarated, too. I always get a buzz when I start planning a new event, and my fake relationship might be the most elaborate event I’ve ever put on.

As soon as I open the apartment door, I’m greeted by a surprising face. Brinley sits at the kitchen counter, one glass of red wine in front of her, a second glass poured and waiting.

“You’re home?” I ask Brinley, dropping my purse on the counter. “I thought you’d be at Beau’s.”

“That was before.” Brinley raises a brow as she slides the second wine glass toward me. “I’ll start with saying, I’m so, so, so sorry for sharing your location with your brothers. I was stupid. They called, and you didn’t respond to any of my texts, and I knew how desperate you were for money. I jumped to conclusions and broke friend code. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, taking the glass in my hand. “I had enough going on, that’s the least of my problems. I’m not mad.”

“Good. Then I won’t feel guilty when I demand for you to spill it. The gossip, not the wine. Because I know you’re not actually dating my brother. Whatever it is, I can handle it—best friend code.”

Despite having enjoyed plenty of whiskey at Twisted Devil, I still take a long swallow of the wine to steel myself. It’s deliciously tart, probably an Italian wine Beau picked up. “It's kind of a long story,” I start.

Brinley doesn't interrupt me, even though it takes me a while to tell her everything. How I created the PrairieSmoke profile when my money started running out. The final nail in the coffin of my bank account when the Whitmer Gallery rescheduled their opening. Scheduling the auction in the hopes of getting one last cash infusion. Walking into the St. Regis, ready to give up everything. Her face is carefully neutral and nonjudgmental—a feat, since Brinley has strong feelings about almost everything and is terrible about keeping them in.

She drains half her glass of wine after she hears her brother's name, even though I quickly reassure her that nothing happened between us. I explained how I ran, how he pulled the emergency stop on the elevator, and how he explained he’d been watching me for weeks. How he had no intention to bid on me until he recognized my birthmark on the poster. How he spent over a million to make sure he beat out the other five bidders to keep me safe. When I’m finished, she carefully sets down on her empty glass.

“My brother”—she pauses for a long moment—“paid one-point-three million dollars”—she pauses again—“for your virginity?”

I shake my head quickly. “He didn't take my virginity, obviously. He never wanted to. It was only to make sure nobody else did. He released the escrow, so there's no money and no record that it happened.”